When They First Met
by EloiseAtThePlaza
Summary: The first time she sees him, his eyes are heavily bandaged. The first time he sees her, it's across a crowded street.


**AN: This is my Valentine's Day gift fic for kgm42986 on Tumblr. I hope you like it!**

**Thank you to just-mindy for the beta :)**

* * *

The first time she sees him, his eyes are heavily bandaged. His skin is pale and sallow against the hospital bedlinens but he isn't glistening with a fevered sweat. No infections from injuries unseen, then. That's good. In her experience men with festering wounds, whether gaping or small, were the most difficult patients.

"Who's there?"

His voice startles her. It's soft, very soft, but the rich baritone cuts through the silence in a way that other whispered voices rarely do.

"It's just your nurse, sir…" She consults his chart but doesn't see a name. He must've lost his tags in battle, then. A common occurrence but sad nonetheless.

The man sits up in bed with some difficulty, the bedsheet riding low on his bare waist. Molly almost averts her gaze but thinks better of it when she remembers he cannot see her. A niggling voice in her head sees fit to remind her that even if he could see her, she's dealt with too many horrific, mangled bodies to be concerned with a bit of nudity. He's no different; he's just her patient. His abdomen, chiseled though it may be, is just that. An abdomen. One part of his body.

"Have you come to poke and prod at me like the others have?" he asks, gritting his teeth.

"No," she assures him, setting the chart down at the end of the bed. She slowly approaches him and he visibly stiffens. "I'm just here to check your vitals, sir."

Mollified, he slumps back and holds out his left arm. Her movements practiced and sure, Molly places two fingers atop the pulse in his wrist and consults her pocket watch, timing his steady heartbeat to the seconds ticking by. She pats his hand when she's done counting. He doesn't tuck it back underneath the covers for warmth.

"You're new here," he states, turning his head in her direction.

"Yes. Recently transferred from London." Molly smiles despite the blunt observation. "So are you."

"What's your name?"

"Nurse Hooper." Pushing all modesty to the side, she leans across him to tug the bedsheets up to his chest. He hums in response to her answer, his warm breath tickling the skin of her neck.

"I mean, your real name."

Taken aback, Molly stills in her movements and straightens back up. She doesn't miss the way a small smile tugs at the corners of his chapped lips.

"As I am your nurse and you are my patient, I'm afraid I can't say," she cautions.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you my name, either, but for an entirely different reason. I seem to have lost it...somewhere." He pantomimes searching through the bedlinens and Molly stifles a giggle at the bizarre sight. A blind man with a foggy memory, looking for his lost name.

"Shall I tell you if and when I find it?" she softly teases. She feels a blush spread over her body as the man's smile broadens, his nose crinkling and dimples taking form in his cheeks.

"Please do...Nurse Hooper."

If she could see his eyes, she instinctively knows that they would be shining with humor, as well.

**xxx**

She sees him everyday.

Oftentimes it's to change his bandages. She tries to keep her hands from shaking as she cares for his damaged eyes, the irises cloudy and the white scleras tarnished red from the mustard gas.

Sometimes she visits to simply check how he is faring or if he needs relief from the pain.

Every time, whether she's at his bedside for a matter of minutes or for an extended period, he asks for her name.

And every time, she gives him the same answer she did the first time. Nurse Hooper. Nothing else.

**xxx**

Time goes by. She continues to care for her other patients with a detached, clinical eye but her association with the blind, nameless soldier grows to something reminiscent of friendship. He tells her stories; some having to do with his time in the trenches and others detailing his life before the war started. She can't say for certain whether he truly remembers these brief glimpses into his personal life or if every anecdote is a figment of his imagination, conjured up because he has no real memory of his past.

The latter reason is too painful for her to stomach so Molly raptly listens to him talk about his days as a "consulting" detective. She seldom asks him to elaborate; mostly, she is content to sit in silence and let his voice wash over her. It calms her and helps her to forget, if only for a little while, the pervading stench of carnage and death around them.

**xxx**

When she finally decides to broach the delicate subject of their relationship, her concerns are met with his wry humor. He is always telling jokes. Some of them are truly funny and others are terribly morbid but she laughs every time if only to catch a glimpse of his answering smile.

"I fail to see what's so wrong with us spending time with each other every day," he says, keeping perfectly still as Molly wraps a fresh bandage around his head.

"People may gossip," she murmurs, glancing about the room. Thankfully it's all but deserted. Few patients have been willing to recover in the same room as her soldier; from what she's seen, he has a bristly, dismissive demeanor around the doctors. But with her, he's gentle. Still a bit rough around the edges but she doesn't mind it. She finds it endearing in the same way that she does his daily attempts to find out her real name.

"People do little else," he responds.

"But it's not decent," she objects. She is finished wrapping his eyes but her hands linger, the pads of her fingers lightly tracing the sharp lines and hard angles of his face.

He huffs out a breath and leans into her touch. "Who cares about decency?"

The words 'I do' are on the tip of her tongue but she snaps her mouth shut, trapping the lie inside. As if sensing her conflicted thoughts her soldier turns his head just so, pressing a kiss to the inside of her palm.

She abruptly pulls away, guarding the hand he kissed against her chest. Before she can think to scold him for being so forward, he leans back in bed and folds his hands atop his stomach.

"Tell me again what you look like."

She sighs, idly rubbing the thumb of her opposite hand over the place where his lips have just touched. "I've told you a dozen times."

"I need to hear it again."

"Why?"

He frowns. "So that I can recognize you in a room full of strangers or across a crowded street."

Heart fluttering in her chest, Molly recites what he wants to hear - that she's petite with light brown hair and dark brown eyes. Not even for a second does she let on what the doctor told her in hushed tones; that her soldier, the consulting detective with no name and very little memory, will likely never regain his sight again.

**xxx**

His brother comes to collect him a week later. The severe looking man informs her that his brother will convalesce "back home". Molly can only guess where home for her soldier lies. Somewhere in England and far away from where she is stationed on the Western Front, that much is certain.

"Until we meet again, Nurse Hooper," he tells her as his brother gathers his meager belongings.

"Yes," she whispers.

Molly tries to hold back tears as he blindly reaches for her hand. She gives it to him and he bestows a gentle kiss to the back of it.

"I'll find you," he vows.

As she watches him leave, his weight half-supported by his brother and his footsteps unsure, she can only hope that he'll uphold his unlikely promise.

* * *

The first time he sees her, it's across a crowded street.

Before he can make any sense of what he's doing, he's darted across several lanes of traffic to catch up to her. He digs his heels into the pavement and he grabs hold of her elbow for purchase, stopping just short of colliding with her.

"I beg your pardon! What on earth do you think you're doing?" she protests, whipping her head around.

When they lock eyes, it takes only a second for her to recognize him. Her face blanches itself of color and her eyes widen as though he's a specter instead of a living, breathing man.

"I've found you," he says, because it seems like the right thing to say. It's taken a very long time - months - but he's finally fulfilled the promise he left her with.

She claps a hand over her mouth as she takes in his appearance. He must look very different, he realizes; he's gained several stone under the supervision of his doctor and he no longer walks with his hands out in front of him, grappling through the dark.

"Your eyes...you - they're-" She gestures wordlessly to his face.

Sherlock smiles. "Fully recovered. As luck would have it, I'm very good friends with an army doctor."

She gives him a smile in return. It's so bright, so earnest and so real that he feels his breath catch.

"And...your memory? Your name?" she urges.

He takes her hand in his, uncaring of the several peculiar glances they receive from passersby. "Sherlock Holmes. And yours?"

"Molly Hooper."

"Molly," he intones, noting with satisfaction how well the name suits her. Molly, the woman who dressed his wounds with the utmost care. Molly, the one person in the hospital who tolerated his black moods when he lost hope of ever living in a world without darkness. Molly, his friend and companion when he woke drenched in sweat from nightmares full of bloodshed and bombs. Molly.

He watches with fascination as she lets go of his hand to wipe at the tears gathering in her eyes. "I'd given up hope of ever meeting you again."

"I know." He closes the distance between them and cups her small, round face in his hand, tilting her chin up so that her eyes meet his. "But I am here now, and that is all that matters."

She nods, her bottom lip trembling with emotion. "Yes."

He lets out a shaky breath and runs the pad of his thumb against the seam of her tremulous smile. Her lips part willingly and she sighs, letting her eyes slip closed. It's obvious that she knows what he would like to do next. Still, he needs her permission. It'd be improper to take what he's been dreaming about without first inquiring as to whether she wants the same thing.

"May I kiss you?"

Her eyes dart open, revealing a look so full of adoration that he's sorely tempted to sweep her off her feet.

"Yes. Please, Sherlock. Please kiss me."

The last of his resolve leaves him. His arms encircle her small waist and he lifts her up so that her face is level with his own. Then and only then does he press his lips to hers with the same care and consideration she bestowed to him when they first met.


End file.
